


The Kiss of Dawn

by Wolkov



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Attempt at Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Mutual Pining, Other, Red Wedding, Slow Burn, The Author Dying Writing This, Wildlings - Freeform, hold on to your tits i literally fought canon to make this happen its gonna get wild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 01:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolkov/pseuds/Wolkov
Summary: "One ought to be careful not to disturb the wolf in the midst of his feast--lest they lose their head."Lord Robb Stark, deemed to be dead, has risen and now amasses an army to repay all his enemies in kind for what followed in the Red Wedding. Vengeance and bloodcurdling fury beats in his deadened heart, and mercy and love are things impalpable to him. He has but one goal: hang the heads of all those who have wronged the Starks from the walls of Winterfell as warning to any who'd dare to cross them again.A warning to all except the Dragon Queen who has set sail from Meereen to Dragonstone with the hopes of bringing justice to the people of Westeros. None shall stand in her way; for, indeed, what creature roars mightier than the dragon?As these established rulers clash ways, and as the enemy to the North stirrs the night with vengeful creatures, and as Queen Cersei rises to the challenge, unbeknownst to them, they suddenly find themselves on the same side of the table, and only with the aid of the other do they realize they have a chance at victory......and a chance at peace. For how high can a dragon fly before it must fall; and how far can a wolf run before it must seek shelter?





	The Kiss of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know the summary must've given a more aloof statement about their relationship but I swear this fic will have romance. I cant do without it; I simply cant. All I wanted was to present a succint idea of what this fic will hold in store for you amazing readers, and, honestly, summarizing it literally took me a day because I couldnt make peace with what I wrote because of the amount of plot this fic carried.
> 
> Just a brief note: this fic will contain certain facts from both the books and show, and I will play with them and use them to my favor, so if you spot a fact that's not in the books but in the show and vice versa, don't come for my ass. Its tiny and afraid.
> 
> Also, Im in no way satisfied with Dany's ending (or anybody else's tbqh) in the show, hence me writing this in the first place. I wanted to give her arc (and the arc of others) a better and more fitting ending than the trash one we got, but obviously with the pair I wanted.
> 
> Also also, Robb's scenes will take up a few chapters before I get to the pair sharing scenes together because I really love this character and want to set him up for the events that will follow in seasons seven and eight. So, please, bear with me.
> 
> This is my very first GOT fic, please dont roast me. If I make any mistakes regarding the characters and the like, I would love for you guys to correct me. As much as I love writing this fic, I would want you guys to love reading it too.
> 
> Now, on with the story!

* * *

_ 300 AC _

“Mother... Grey Wind...”

From deep within his chest, came a rumbling sound, and, as though his own, as though in sync with his  direwolf howling outside the castle, the sound moulded with something akin to fervour inside him and emerged as a bloodcurdling snarl, but for all his bravery and strength, Robb found that he could not voice it. He could not voice anything. All he registered were faces of men, men that’ve betrayed him, men that were not in this room, as they flashed past his very eyes. He thought he recognized some, he thought he knew some and called them his brethren-in-arms when the havoc of many a battle reigned over their heads, but with the final brush of blurring fatigue against his consciousness and the piercing of a dagger through his heart, the King in the North thought it mattered not what he perceived. In the end, he was betrayed.

In the end, he fell to his death.

His mother’s pained scream was the last sound he thought he heard, and it broke whatever was left of his heart.

* * *

_ 301 AC _

_ Get up! _

The grey beast’s ears perked at the sound of talking guardsmen nearing the woods he stalked behind, and his ever-watchful eyes, golden but predatory, followed them as they traipsed into the barren woods, their crossbows and swords swinging lamely from their sides.

As the fallen leaves crunched below their booted feet , and the coming winter hung heavy on the tip of every branch with  dusk ready to eclipse the cobalt-blue sky, he knew his hunt was a mere whisper away from starting, and his upper lip disappeared above his sharp teeth at that, his canine fangs thrumming ravenously.

_ Get up and walk out! _

In his lying position, he waited for the last streak of light to fade into darkness, and then rose to his full height, his bones, burly and robust, jutting underneath cruelly-coiled muscles and thick fur. One could mistake him for a horse if it weren’t for the large, dark head and almost violent physique of the beast.

When the night finally fell over him like a cover, he bolted into a blurring sprint of dark grey whisking through the woods—and straight at the guardsmen.  _ Frey _ men, he snarled in sudden anger.

He welcomed it. Embraced it. Anger was a reminder, and their blood was payment.

The scent of fire, crackling wild and hot,  per vaded his senses, and the voice of the Frey men echoed over it as they spoke of the recent deaths piling up at their front gate.

“This beast,” he heard the first of the four start, “they say he is a punishment from the old gods and the new. Punishment for the way our men butchered the late King in the North and forfeited the rights of the guest to win the bloody war—”

“Ye o’er think too much,” another chipped in. “The bloody war was o’er the second the Stark king lost Winterfell. A king with no castle is no king, I tell ye! We should've cut off his wolf’s tail and placed it between his legs, I tell ye!”

At that, a symphony of laughter erupted.

“These talks are but the tales of fishwives weaving them to keep their damn ed children from springing up their beds. The long winter is upon us, brothers. Food is scarce, stocks are scarce; the beast was chased out from its home by its own feral hunger, is all there is to it. And we will kill it in due time.” For emphasis, he clocked his crossbow.

“Within a fortnight, there shall be a  gatherin ’. Sons and grandsons of Lord Walder Frey will be  attendin ’. We had better a head with us by then, eh?  It’s what we are here for!  What do ye say, brothers?”

A chorus of ‘ayes’ resounded, but one quiet attendee, with audible fear in his voice, sullied the glee in their choir. “Has  it not been brutally  not ed that this is no ordinary beast? For...for what beast solely hunts the flesh of men?  _ Frey _ men?”

Before any could provide an answer, the said beast sprang out from behind the trees and ripped the head of one guardsman free from his shoulders. All leapt to their feet and chaotic screams ensued; hands fumbled for crossbows and swords, but alas, none was too quick  to  dodge or too fast to run. He shredded them to utter pieces, blood and hot saliva dripping from his mouth, and showed no mercy...save to one.

_ Please! _ the familiar voice, hoarse and desperate, invaded his thoughts yet once more. He knew that voice. He loved that voice. And he would never forget it. For a second, he had a glimpse at the image of a beautiful red hair cascading down elegant shoulders.

“Please!” the last Frey man cried out from his position on the ground, arms stretched before him in a pleading manner. “Mercy! Mercy, please!”

He knew he was but a mere shadow towering over him, and so, in cause, he padded closer to him, closer to the fire, and allowed it to illuminate his grotesque  wolfen features as he put them face to face.

A smell, more potent than the blood and gore, filled his senses, when the man whimpering in fear soiled his breeches. Bloodied fangs glistening with a singular sharpness, the beast snarled deep and long, and the Frey man found that he could only gape in trepidation at what towered before him.

A wolf.

A  _ direwolf _ , to be exact.

_ Good _ , the beast thought, and grounded him with his golden stare.  _ You are right to fear me _ , his eyes bespoke, and his enemy, despite his withering wit, recognized the terrifying intelligence brewing behind those  wolfen eyes.  _ You are right to beg, to scream, to run. And you will. You will scurry back to where your Lord rests on his seat and you will tell him that I’m coming for him. _

A ferocious snarl tore through the quiet of the night, and the Frey man, no matter his sundry predicament, found himself nodding his head in subjugation.

_ Tell him I will come for him in the dead of the night... when he least expects it... I will have his head on a spike before long. Tell him I’m coming to litter his halls with the heads of his sons and grandsons. _

As the final shudder racked the Frey man’s body, the beast backed away, one step, two steps, until the shadows engulfed him and  he vanished from view . Not a moment passed before he made out the hurried sprints of the  guards man as he chased his way down to the Green Fork of the River Trident by the towering Twins.

It was of little consequence if he failed in his mission in delivering his message to Lord  Walder Frey—his unharmed body was message enough.

If he hadn’t  ascertained his ominous arrival  with all the previous dead bodies amassing by the gateway of the Twins, he’d  ascertained it now:  _ winter was coming for House Frey _ .

And who better bring it than the  _ late _ King in the North himself?

O

BY THE RUSHING water of the Blue Fork of the Trident, north of Wendish Town, in a small but empty granary, is where Robb Stark first came to awaken.

His body had  _ burned _ in agony, and his groans had echoed with a pain of the most horrendous that, in no less than a minute,  it ’d put him back to sleep. The mender residing over him had merely shaken his head, deeming it wasn’t the proper time to have disturbed him from his healing slumber, but the body called for nourishment, and, every few nights for the next eight months, the healer unceremoniously saw to the deed of it being fed.

But some nights, when the young man’s eyes flashed stark-white and howls erupted deep within the woods, he knew then to wisely attend to other matters that did not involve the boy. 

Through the passage of time, as torn tissues and muscles wove back together, leaving angry red scars in their wake, the fine features of the young man also saw their drastic transformation; once youthlike brows, arching in glee, dipped to furrowing twists that crowned heavy eyelids; and curved lips, having seen many a laugh, turned cruel and unpleasant at the edges ; and teeth, gleaming as they were, grew sharper and more wolf-like.

The healer knew that however much he was mending to his exterior wounds, nothing was aiding his interior ones, and they grew deeper by day, and the young Lord more  savage by night.

There was more beast in him than man, and a chilling violence was brewing in his heart. It was only a matter of time before it took the lands by storm. For all his wisdom and knowledge, the healer could not decide if such outcome would be a favourable event.

But, on the rarest occasions, when he’d leave his sleep and awaken to the healer’s hands, a singular gentleness would fall over him, and the healer would think the young Lord may not be so lost to the world after all. But sometimes, his  direwolf , humongous and bulking with terrifying strength, would enter through the doors, and blood and pieces of human flesh would drip from his fur, and the healer would then think that perhaps the gentleness was merely in cause of such an atrocious act.

But what did an old man know about slaughter and betrayal, especially if the bones of the mother of the betrayed lay in a chest-box to the side of the room, retrieved from one of the rivers after three days of floating?

And yet, having lived through the young Lord’s mournful cries of fury and rage, the mender now deduced that mayhap h e h ad learned a thing or more. Was one truly a healer if they did not at least once tend to the slaughtered and the betrayed?

“Fourteen full moons together,” the voice of the young Lord broke through his musings. “And you wish to part?”

The old man wrapped his tools in a clean cloth and placed them carefully in his satchel. “You walk, and I am no maester, my Lord. I have got no chains around my neck to speak for my accomplishments. You need no fool like me in your ranks.”

“You saved my life. It would be an honour to  have you by my side .”

At that, the old man smiled. “My folks, born to Wendish Town, are the only family I’ve known. I’ve fathered no children, and the only children I’ve tended to were the unfortunate,  no less than the ones I’ve tended to  after the sack of the town by Lannister soldiers. Oh, those were dreary  times . The people who have fled are coming back, and the town is slowly rebuilding. Indeed, traveling with you would bring me the utmost honour, my Lord, but these lands are the only home I have ever known, and so I must stay in them.”

The young Lord, hands clasped behind his back and shoulder leaning against a wall, languidly gazed out the window of the granary. “You have been good to me, Lorryn of Wendish Town. I will  _ not _ forget it.”

The healer merely eyed the young man as he stood more in the shadows than in the light, and in his heart caught a yearning of the most painful. Perhaps he should’ve favoured family over travel and sired sons of his own. That Elayne lass was always so fond of him in his youth. Alas, it mattered little now. He was old, and death favoured the old.

“The North remembers,” he responded in kind.

Something about those words might’ve struck home, because the young Lord turned his head and met his gaze with eyes of the most forlorn.

He offered yet another benign smile, for the young Lord seemed to be in need of them as of late. “The words of your people.”

“Aye,” he muttered, eyes cast downwards. “The people I have failed in ways no king should ever fail his people.”

In all their time together, it was the first sign of vulnerability the old man spotted in his patient. Mayhap it was due to his coming departure that caused a certain reality to settle o ver him . Nonetheless, he walked over to him and, albeit hesitantly, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“When you were brought to me, a whisper away from death’s clutches, I was sure of your eminent passing. No man, no matter what crowns his head, is capable of surviving such grievous wounds, I remember telling myself. But for whatever reason, fates favoured you, and you rose. By the old gods and the new, you  _ rose _ . I have never seen anything like it. And do believe me when I say I have seen men and children die from wounds far less threatening than yours. A king can only fail once. But you have been given a second chance, and when wielded right, you will see that the words of your people still thrive in the north. They’ve trusted you, and so long you breathe, that trust remains. Even now, no matter what has befallen your kingdom, they know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark.”

“I am no king.” His hands balled into tight fists. “A king has responsibilities , duties ; I only know vengeance. House Bolton consolidates the Lannister rule over the North, while House Frey dominates the Riverlands. Until they are uprooted, my vengeance will see no end.”

“Sometimes, my Lord, an enemy is an enemy, and vengeance or not, king or not, the final blow is almost always dealt the same.”

“Aye, that may be so, but a poisoned mind has no right to claim a throne burdened with the lives of many. And do believe me when I say the poison has reached the very soles of my feet. There was a time when I once fought with honour and justice; but with what I’m about to execute, there will be no sign of honour or justice. I will butcher sons in front of fathers, and I will feel all the better for it. But, of course, there is the matter of first seeing that through. Until then...well, I suppose I can  nest in this state a bit longer.” 

“They  _ betrayed _ you, young Lord. They defrauded the guest right for some trivial allegiance with the Lannisters. Aye, a part of me worries for what you are becoming. After many a month of tending to you, how could I not? You’ve almost become like a so—” the healer cut himself short. There were one too many things a poor old man like him could let slip to a Lord, but  _ son  _ was not one of them.

Lord Robb Stark blinked at that, but offered no response. 

Clearing his throat, the healer tried anew. “ The  _ Red Wedding _ left a taste of the most bitter in the tongues of men who once upon a time pledged their swords to you. And many a house lost kinsmen to the great slaughter. The  Riverlands , the Neck, the clansmen, they all remember, young Lord.  _ Winterfell _ remembers.  I cannot tell you that the path you are taking upon yourself to tread is the right one, but if it gives that beast within some ease, then perhaps you would be right to slay heads. If not...” He firmly squeezed his shoulder. “Winter is coming, the  _ true _ winter, and with it come terrible, terrible things that stalk the night. There is no need for you to become one of them. The North, it needs you. Now more than ever. The Northmen will need someone to guide them. Watch over them. For every poison, there is a cure, and they might just be yours.”

The figure below his fingers went utterly still, and, for a moment, he feared the young Lord took offense in his reckless words of affirmation. But, when he turned and embraced the old man, pressing his face to the wolf fur shrouding his  broad  shoulders,  _ that _ , he thought in awe, was an act he did not ever see occurring.

“A belief like yours placed in a man like me, is unprecedented. It is far more than I deserve, and you need not argue for I speak the truth. I will miss you, old friend, and I shall hope that, once I retake Winterfell and come for a visit, you will be well and on your feet.”

Before he could manage to lock his arms around him, the young Lord retreated, and gifted his shoulder three pats before sidestepping him and walking over to where his sword lay on a stack of hay. He deemed the matter closed for now, the healer noted. He was at war with his mind and heart and the beast lurking within, and it would be a long while before this particular king knew any kind of peace, or any kind of happiness, at that. And the healer could not help but pity him.

“As you command,” he provided with a bow of his head.

“When will the Brotherhood return?”

He turned to face  him. “At nightfall,  my Lord. They shall come with more recruits.”

He deftly nodded, strapping his sword to his belt, and the healer went about collecting his possessions before finally donning his cloak of fine fur—curtesy from the young Lord’s  direwolf as it came dragging a large bear to their door. It was a fine evening, that night, filled with boisterous laughter and tales and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, and foot-loosening ale, too, he now recalled with a solemn smile.

He would miss this young Lord, and the other that went by the name Lord  Beric Dondarrion . They were good men, and he prayed that, however lot they were about to  spill blood, it would all  be for the betterment of the kingdoms.

Lord Robb Stark met him by his horse outside the granary, and helped him up with a push from his hands to his feet.

When he reigned the horse to his liking, he glanced down. “ I shall depart alike I have never known or met you, eh, my Lord?”

The Lord  tipped his head in  agreement . 

“Farewell, then, Lord Stark . May the old gods and the Seven be with you, and may you always know their strengths and mercies and wisdom so that you shall never fail.”

“Farewell,  Lorryn of Wendish Town. I will forever be indebted to your kindness. ”

For a short moment, the healer studied the face of Robb Stark, as if committing it to memory, and, with a final nod in his direction, rode off.

Bright eyes, sharp as ever, followed him until his shadow was no more.

* * *

Later in the evening, when thick clouds rolled in and thunder clapped in the distance, the galloping of horses resounded near the wet soils of the Blue Fork, and the granary, once occupied and filled with boisterous activity, now stood silently in the rain, a void of the most quiet echoing within its walls.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it was a bit short and nothing really happened but ohhhh boii will shit start happening in the next chaps. Thank you so much for reading, yall! lots of love from me to you!


End file.
